Chapter 103 Deceit
I head straight to my office with another box tucked under my arm. No detours or lingering, I plan to be in and out.
The space already feels less like mine. Like it started detaching from me the moment I decided to leave. There are gaps now, on the shelves, on the desk....small absences where things used to sit, and it’s strange how quickly a place can start forgetting you.
I move to the shelves, scanning quickly before pulling out the documents that still need to be handed over. Contracts, reports, ongoing files, everything neatly labeled, categorized the way I’ve always done it. I stack them carefully into the box, making sure nothing’s out of place. There’s more than I thought there’d be. Years of work condensed into paper and signatures.
Then I pick it up and head for Susan’s office. I’m already bracing myself for the conversation. For the look on her face. For whatever version of disappointment or restrained anger she decides to go with today.
But when I get there, her PA jumps up so fast her chair scrapes against the floor. She looks startled. A little frazzled. Like she wasn’t expecting me at all.
“Mr. Foster—” she starts, then stops herself, eyes flicking to the box in my hands.
I lift it slightly in explanation. “Just dropping these off. Everything that still needs to be transitioned.”
She blinks, then nods quickly. “Oh..uh...Mrs. Foster's in a meeting at the moment.”
There’s a beat where I consider waiting. Then she steps forward, reaching for the box before I can even decide.
“I’ll make sure she gets these,” she says, a little too quickly. “Everything will be handed over properly.”
I let her take it.
“Thanks,” I say, nodding once. And just like that, it’s done. No confrontation or drawn-out conversation. No final, loaded exchange.
I turn toward the door, already feeling the shift, the lightness that comes with something ending cleaner than expected. And I realize, as I walk back down the hallway, that I’m relieved. Not just because I didn’t have to see Susan. But because I don’t have to stay here any longer than necessary.
Because Ryan is waiting.
Because every minute here feels like a minute taken from somewhere I’d rather be. I return to my office, grab my things, and let my gaze sweep the room one final time. It’s strange how something that once held so much weight can feel so irrelevant now.
My eyes land on the framed photo of me and my mum. She always used to tell me to follow my dreams. She'd say it so easily. I let out a quiet breath, a small smile tugging at my mouth. “I’m trying,” I murmur, more to myself than anything else. And for the first time in a long time, it feels like I actually am.
I head for the elevator and the doors slide open almost immediately, I step inside, shifting the weight of the box slightly in my arms as I reach for the button.
They start to close. Then....
“Hold it, please!”
I react on instinct, reaching out to stop the doors before they can shut completely. They slide back open, and a woman steps in quickly, slightly out of breath.
“Thank you,” she says, smiling as she adjusts her bag on her shoulder.
I nod once. “No problem.”
The doors close again, there’s a brief silence. Then I feel a shift. I glance over and she’s looking at me. Intently. Her expression changes, recognition settling in first, then something else. Surprise, maybe even disbelief.
“Michael Foster?” she asks.
I look at her properly now, and I recognize her instantly. Vivienne Hansen.
“Ms. Hansen,” I say, shifting the box slightly so I can nod properly. “Good morning.”
She lights up a little at that, stepping forward instinctively and reaching out her hand. “Oh my God! It’s so nice to finally meet you—”
Then she pauses, because I’m still holding the box. There’s a brief, awkward beat where her hand just hovers between us, and I can’t do much more than adjust my grip like that might somehow free one of them. She lets out a small, self-aware laugh, withdrawing her hand. “Right...sorry. Poor timing.”
“It’s alright,” I say, a faint smile pulling at my mouth.
Her gaze drops to the box instead, taking it in properly now. Then back up to me. Something shifts. Her expression tightens slightly...confusion creeping in, followed by something sharper. She glances over her shoulder, vaguely gesturing back the way she came from.
“That’s strange,” she mutters, more to herself at first. Then louder, “They told me you wouldn’t be back for another few weeks.”
I blink. “I’m sorry?”
“They said you were still in Canada,” she continues, frowning now. “Handling something at the branch there.”
I stare at her for a second. Then I smile politely. “I think there might be some confusion.”
She shakes her head immediately. Firm and certain. “No, I’m quite sure. That’s what I was told.”
There’s a pause, then her eyes flick to the box again, lingering this time. “What’s with that?” she asks, nodding toward it. I follow her gaze down to it, then back up. And for some reason, I don’t even question it, I smile.
“I resigned.”
The word lands between us, simple and clean. But the effect it has on her is anything but. She stares at me, completely thrown.
“Resigned?” she repeats, like the word doesn’t quite make sense in this context. “What do you mean, resigned? Why...since when?”
The elevator doors slide open. I step out, shifting the box again, and she follows automatically, still looking at me like she’s trying to piece something together that doesn’t quite fit. We both slow just outside the elevator, then turn slightly toward each other.
My gaze drifts briefly toward the exit, sunlight filtering in through the glass doors, then I look back at her. “I was actually supposed to take you on,” I say, tone easy, almost conversational. “But I’m sure whoever they assign you to will take good care of you.”
She’s already shaking her head before I even finish. “No,” she says. And it's surprisingly firm.
“The only reason I agreed to join this company was because of you.”
My brow lifts slightly. It shouldn’t surprise me, it’s happened before. People requesting to work with me specifically. Big names, important names. But she’s not just anyone. At forty-five, Vivienne Hansen has built something most people spend a lifetime chasing. Influence. Reach. Reputation that carries weight.
“Oh,” I say, a quiet breath leaving me. “Well, I’m flattered. But I promise, you didn’t make a mistake.”
She shakes her head again, stronger this time. “No,” she insists. “I made it very clear. It was either you, or no one.”
There’s something in her tone now. Not just confusion, frustration. “I was told you were excited to work together,” she adds, eyes narrowing slightly. “That you were just tied up in Canada and would be back soon.”
I feel it then, something clicking into place. “Who told you that?”
She looks at me like the answer is obvious. “Susan Foster,” she says. “I was just in a meeting with her.”
I exhale slowly, my grip tightening just slightly on the box before I force it to ease. Of course she would. Keep things moving. Keep appearances intact. Secure the deal by any means. For a moment, I just stand there. Then I let out a small, almost amused breath, the corner of my mouth lifting....not quite a smile, not quite anything else.
Because it makes sense now. My father stopped by my apartment in person. That alone should’ve been enough to set something off. He doesn’t do that. Doesn’t close distance unless there’s something specific to gain from it. Something that requires control, presence, precision.
Using my name like that....
Letting it carry weight in rooms I’m no longer part of. Building something on the assumption that I’d still be here while treating my actual choice like it didn’t matter at all. Like I didn’t matter.
Vivienne is watching me carefully now. Her expression has shifted completely, shock giving way to something more unsettled.
“Just so I’m clear,” she says slowly, “you were never in Canada?”
There’s a split second, a reflex. Old habit....where I consider damage control. The part of me that’s been trained to smooth things over, to protect the company, to preserve the image no matter what’s happening underneath. She’s a major acquisition, a name that carries weight. This could cost them.
That instinct almost speaks, but then I think about what this actually is. The disregard, the manipulation. The assumption that both she and I could be handled without transparency.
And something in me settles. I shake my head. “No,” I say, steady. “I wasn’t.”